Marshall took down William Roughead’s Twelve Scots Trials and said, “Lucky devil! I’ve never so much as seen a copy of this before.” He smiled at the argumentative pencilings in the margins. Then as he went to replace it, he saw through the gap that there was a second row of books behind. Paperbacks. He took one out and put it back hastily. “You wouldn’t want to see that, Sister. But it might fit into that case we were proposing about repressions and word-distortions.”

Sister Ursula seemed not to heed him. She was standing by the bed and said, “Come here.”

Marshall came and looked at the freshly made bed.

Sister Ursula passed her hand over the mended but clean lower sheet. “Do you see?”

“See what?”

“The answer,” she said.

Marshall frowned. “Look, Sister—”

“Lieutenant, your wife is one of the most efficient housekeepers I’ve ever known. I thought she had, to some extent, indoctrinated you. Think. Try to think with Leona’s mind.”

Marshall thought. Then his eyes narrowed and he said, “So . . .”

“It is fortunate,” Sister Ursula said, “that the Order of Martha of Bethany specializes in housework.”

Marshall went out and called downstairs. “Raglan! See if the laundry’s been picked up from the back porch.”

The Sergeant’s voice came back. “It’s gone, Loot. I thought there wasn’t no harm—”

“Then get on the phone quick and tell them to hold it.”

“But what laundry, Loot?”

Marshall muttered. Then he turned to Sister Ursula. “The men won’t know of course, but we’ll find a bill somewhere. Anyway, we won’t need that till the preliminary hearing. We’ve got enough now to settle Quasimodo.”

He heard the Lieutenant’s question and repressed a startled gesture. He had not thought of that. But even if they traced the laundry, it would be valueless as evidence without Mrs. Carey’s testimony . . .

He saw at once what had to be done.

They had taken Mrs. Carey to the guest room, that small downstairs bedroom near the kitchen which must have been a maid’s room when this was a large family house. There were still police posted outside the house, but only Raglan and the Lieutenant inside.

It was so simple. His mind, he told himself, had never been functioning more clearly. No nonsense about stripping this time; this was not for pleasure. Just be careful to avoid those crimson jets. . . .

The Sergeant wanted to know where he thought he was going. He told him.

Raglan grinned. “You should’ve raised your hand. A teacher like you ought to know that.”

He went to the back porch toilet, opened and closed its door without going in. Then he went to the kitchen and took the second-best knife. The best had been used last night.